


Gods Who Answer No Prayers

by theDeadTree



Series: Hawke Stories [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-All That Remains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a devastating personal tragedy, Hawke grieves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods Who Answer No Prayers

I opened my eyes.

And found myself almost immediately wishing that I hadn’t.

Natural light poured in through the windows of the estate, sunshine beaming down onto the floor of the parlour. I let out a low, hoarse groan and rolled over onto my side, away from the sun.

The floor was cold and uncomfortable. Why I was sprawled out on it instead of my bed was something of a mystery. One I didn’t care to solve. Too distracted by the raw, parched feeling in my throat and the small fact that my brain was imploding.

This is usually the part where I swear off drinking for the rest of my miserable existence.

But I won’t.

Because we all know how long _that’s_ going to last.

My fingers brushed against smooth glass and I reached, grabbing at the bottle that lay just out of my reach. After what felt like an eternity of straining, my hand closed around the neck of the bottle and I immediately brought it to my lips. Exactly one drop of amber liquid fell, splashing on my tongue and almost immediately causing a wave of nausea to wash over me.

I let out a frustrated groan and tossed the bottle away, barely even reacting when it smashed against the floor, breaking into who even knows how many shards. I half expected Bodahn, or Orana, or _somebody_ to appear at that moment, roused by the noise. Somebody to come in and start admonishing me for the mess I’d made, and urging me to take better care of myself.

Why? This is more or less how Fenris spends his spare time and _he_ seems _fine._

…not even I believe that.

And there it is. The final sign of sobriety.

Now that just wouldn’t do. I wasn’t ready to confront reality, not yet. I’d already spent the past few days in a drunken haze and not even the Maker Himself could stop me from continuing that streak.

It was through nothing less than a monumental amount of sheer determination that I forced myself up, off the floor, and onto my feet. I staggered as the world spun sickeningly around me and every fibre in my being screamed at me to stop, to go back to sprawling out on the floor despite how uncomfortable it was and just accept fate. Rather than listen, I stumbled to the door, pushing it open and practically falling through until I hit the stairs that would eventually lead to the wine cellar.

That’s all I cared about, at that point. Something, _anything_ that meant I didn’t have to engage with the reality of the situation. Anything that meant I didn’t have to remember, that I didn’t have to stop and think about everything that had happened.

The cellar door didn’t open.

My brow creased and I tugged at it once again, with more force this time. It remained stubbornly closed, silently tormenting me with all the alcohol I couldn’t get at so long as it remained that way.

…locked?

Who in their right mind _locked_ the _cellar?_

I stared mindlessly at the wood, and for one wild moment, I seriously considered forcing it open with magic. Despite the fact that doing something like that would more than likely cause the entire estate to burn down in a blaze of glory.

Right at that moment, I didn’t care. The estate could burn, and everything with it. There was nothing worth preserving here anymore. Nothing worth keeping. There’s no point anymore. No point in anything. Because all of this – all the suffering, all the blood and sweat and effort I put into the past few years – was ultimately for a family that’s already gone.

It keeps playing out in my head, regardless of whether I want it to or not. I keep reliving that moment, over and over and _over_ again. Somehow, I expect it to be different. I keep thinking that maybe this time I’ll get there before- …before she…

And I don’t.

Because it doesn’t change.

Nothing _ever_ changes.

It’s always the same thing. Each and every single time, I don’t get there fast enough, she collapses into my arms and stares up at me with eyes that aren’t hers and she dies. She dies and I feel like I’ve been stabbed and I can’t breathe and I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I can’t.

It’s my fault.

It’s _my fault._

And she died. She’s gone, forever, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

She’s dead. She’s dead, she died and he killed her and it’s _my fault-_

And I left her – Maker forgive me, I left her, I just _left._ After everything that happened, everything she’d been put through, everything _I’d_ gone through to find her, and I left. I left her like how I left Bethany, broken and bloodied in the dirt outside Lothering. I left her there, underneath the foundry, because I couldn’t bring myself to look at her, look at what he’d done to her.

She stared at me with eyes that weren’t hers, I cradled a body that wasn’t hers, held hands that weren’t hers, brushed skin that wasn’t hers. I watched her die, but for all intents and purposes, she was already dead. All that remained was a twisted, broken corpse that wasn’t her.

It’s sick. It’s twisted and foul and evil and _sick,_ what happened to her.

It never ends.

It never _fucking_ ends.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a heavy sigh. I was supposed to be better than this. I was supposed to look after my family after Father died. Instead, I lost them. I lost them all. Bethany to the Blight. Carver to the Wardens. Mother to another man’s grief and insanity. My one job, and I failed so spectacularly at it.

What’s left, after that?

There’s no point anymore. Was there ever a point to this? To _any_ of this? Why am I still _here?_ Why do I remain, when there’s nothing to hold me?

I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t be here.

With that thought, I stomped back up the stairs, heading straight for the front door. I didn’t know where I planned to go. I didn’t know if I even intended to come back. I just…needed to leave. Needed to get away from here, from this house, from all the memories that haunted it.

I wonder if Gamlen wrote to the Wardens. I wonder if Carver knows. I wonder what his reaction will be. I wonder if this is the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.

And we’d just started to improve, too. His latest letters had been almost civil. Maker, there’d even been some slight _affection_ in them, albeit in his usual passive-aggressive way.

I can’t.

Maker, I can’t. I just _can’t._

The main square of Hightown was surprisingly bright and cheerful – jarringly so, in comparison to the estate. The sun shone, people laughed and chatted as they went about their daily business – it was like nothing had happened. Nothing was wrong.

That was a lie, of course. Everything had happened. _Everything_ was wrong. Why? Because it’s _Kirkwall,_ dammit, and something is _always_ wrong. You live here long enough; you learn to tune it out. You don’t see the suffering, the pain, the confusion and fear. You don’t notice the blood running in the gutters.

But I do. I see it. I can’t stop myself. I paid attention to it because it was the only way I could scrounge up the coin to go on that _blighted expedition._ After that, it became a habit. One I can’t seem to bring myself to break. All part of my compulsive need to fix every problem I see, apparently. Just one more annoying character trait I managed to inherit from my father.

Dammit. I miss him. I miss all of them. Mother’s just the latest in the growing list of relatives I’m grieving for.

I don’t even know how many days it’s been since, and it still doesn’t feel real.

None of this feels real.

I came to a halt, doubling over as I found myself fighting the tears that threatened to overwhelm me. My chest restricted and I sucked in air desperately, never feeling as though I was quite getting enough.

It’s not fair.

It’s _not fair._

Why me?

Why _my family?_

What did I do to deserve this? To deserve any of this?

That _is_ the eternal question.

I let out a long sigh before straightening, blinking and squinting through the bright glare of the sun, ignoring all the odd looks I’m sure everyone was giving me as I stood motionless in the middle of the street.

The Chantry loomed overhead, towering and ominous as ever. For so long, I stared vacantly at it, unable to rid myself of the gnawing feeling that something was wrong with this situation. And not in the way that I usually feel distinctly uncomfortable around religious buildings.

I- …this is- …not where I wanted to go.

 _How_ did I get here?

How did I manage to stumble my way across Hightown in such an utter daze that I didn’t notice where I was going until right this very second?

Is this supposed to be the Maker? Is this supposed to be Him telling me to seek absolution? Is this what He does now? Takes advantage of my disorientated, hungover stupor and emotional turmoil to drive me towards religion? Does He intend to use my suffering to His advantage?

That _does_ sound like the kind of sneaky underhanded controlling bullshit I’d expect from a god.

Though why He wants the sad, mildly hungover Fereldan apostate of all people, I’ll never understand.

Why?

Why should I _care?_

When have I had any reason to listen to what religion had to tell me? I have enough problems without the Chantry telling me I’m a monster for existing outside their control. For daring to exist as any normal person would. I don’t need religion telling me I don’t have that right.

Is _that_ what this is? Is this _punishment?_ Does the Maker think I haven’t suffered enough already?

Just _tell me_ what I’m doing _wrong._ There has to be something specific. It can’t solely be because of the apostate thing – I’m not the only one in the world and I’m not even the worst of them. I’m actually pretty good as far as apostates go. I’m not possessed. I’m not a blood mage. That’s more than I can say for the other two apostates I know. There has to be something else. Something bad enough that it warrants my family being torn apart as recompense.

But the Maker won’t tell me, will He?

Of course not.

He never does.

I don’t suppose it matters, in the end. We all worship gods who answer no prayers.

Obviously there was some subconscious part of me that doesn’t believe that, because no sooner had the thought crossed my mind, I was walking through the wide open doors that led into the chantry. Looking for what, I don’t know. I couldn’t say. Maybe meaning. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe something else that hadn’t yet occurred to me.

My footsteps echoed throughout the central chamber of the building, making me wince slightly as a couple of sisters stopped what they were doing and promptly turned to look at me. I kept my head down, wanting to draw as little attention as possible for once in my life. It didn’t get me very far. It never does. Seems I’m just that noticeable these days.

Suddenly hyper aware that everyone’s attentions were now on me, I slid into the nearest pew, clasped my hands together and bowed my head, trying to at least give off the illusion of prayer.

“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next,” I murmured, reciting the first verse of the Chant that came to mind. “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go toward Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her shield, her foundation, and her sword.”

I trailed off into silence, leaning back and feeling somewhat impressed with myself for even having remembered that much.

And of course it was from the Canticle of Transfigurations.

Father’s favourite.

I don’t even know why I’m surprised.

“Garrett!” I heard an accented voice gasp in surprise.

Immediately, my head snapped up at the call of my name to find Sebastian standing there, eyes wide with shock over finding me sitting silently in the back row of the assembled pews. Immediately, my mouth went dry and I struggled to think of anything to say. I gripped the pew in front of me, suddenly hyper aware of absolutely everything that was going on in the building – which, admittedly, wasn’t much. The way he stared at me, looking so apparently scandalised, we may as well have been in the Rose.

I honestly can’t tell if he’s pleased to see me or if he’s worried I’m going to destroy the sanctity of the Chant of Light just by being here. Somehow. Through some magical power only apostates and atheists possess, surely.

I guess we’ll have to see.

“Sebastian,” I greeted him cordially, nodding slightly.

Maybe if I act like I come here all the time and he’s just never noticed my presence before, it won’t be the horrendously awkward encounter I know it’s going to be. Hopefully.

He shifted uncomfortably for a moment, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. For what felt like an entire age, we both just stared at each other, neither knowing what to do, or say.

“I- …uh, forgive me, I did not expect to find you here,” he managed after far too long.

I closed my eyes and let out a quiet groan, resting my head on the pew in front of me. This is not what I wanted to happen. I wanted to just sit here in silence for a moment, feel awful about myself for the crime of simply existing, and leave. I suppose even that was too much to ask.

It always is.

Slowly, I pushed myself back up into a sitting position, glancing over at Sebastian as he continued to stand there, not really knowing what to do with himself. I really must’ve surprised him.

I looked away from him, returning my gaze to the colossal effigy of Andraste in front of me. I didn’t have anything to say. There were no words with which I could defend myself. I didn’t see the point in even trying. I was here. He’d caught me. I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve prepared myself for such an encounter, but I didn’t. It really shouldn’t be anything to be embarrassed about, I knew that, but that did nothing to change how self-conscious I was.

Carefully, quietly, he eased himself down next to me, joining me in staring aimlessly ahead.

And for so long, we both just sat there, in complete silence, contemplating.

I don’t think he knew what to say to me.

No one’s really known what to say to me. Half the time, _I_ don’t even know what to say to me. It’s like being back in Lothering after Father died. Six years on, and I _still_ don’t know how to deal with grief. At least now I have the option of drinking myself into oblivion. After all, who’s going to stop me? Who do I need to look after? That family I _don’t have?_

My breath hitched in my throat at the thought.

_Damn it._

Change the subject.

Change it now.

“I remember the chantry in Lothering,” I murmured, gazing up at the clean white marble walls and taking in the almost ethereal calm of it all. “Just a small, quiet place, nothing particularly impressive. Not like this.”

“Did you go there often?”

I let out a short shout of derisive laughter. “No. Not if I could help it. The place terrified me.”

His eyes narrowed a little, surprised by my answer. Or surprised to see me laughing. It’s so hard to tell.

“Maker, Sebastian, I’m an _apostate,”_ I pointed out when he said nothing and his confused expression didn’t change. “What’s more, I’m an apostate from a family of apostates. Running and hiding is all I’ve ever known. When that’s your life, you learn to fear the people who hunt you.”

And you learn to fear the god they worship. The god whose words they use to illustrate exactly how something as meagre as your own continued existence is an affront to all things pure and good in the world. You learn to fear their teachings, without ever hearing them. Because all you’ve ever known from that god, from His prophet, from His followers, is hatred and fear.

I expected Sebastian to bristle at that, to say something about how the mages are dangerous and need to be regulated, about how the templars serve a holy purpose or whatever the Chantry likes to say.

But he didn’t.

“The Maker loves all of His children, Garrett,” he told me gently. “All we need to do is accept Him. Mages are not excluded from that.”

I sighed. “You sound like my father.”

 _That_ surprised him. “Your father was Andrastian?”

“Shockingly, yes,” I replied, growing distant as a wealth of memories came flooding into my conscious mind. “He- …he used to recite the Canticle of Transfigurations as he cast. He always said it was to focus himself. Remind him of what he ought to be.”

His eyebrows rose slightly in disbelief, but he didn’t comment on it. I can’t say I was at all surprised by his reaction. No one ever hears about my father the rebel apostate who stole the heart of a Kirkwall noblewoman and ran away to Ferelden without automatically assuming he wanted nothing to do with the Chantry. It’s a logical conclusion, after all. A true Andrastian mage, one would think, would stay in the Circle.

But then, my whole family is known for defying expectations. Perhaps it’s not so absurd after all.

“Your father sounded like a good man,” Sebastian noted, his voice quiet and subdued.

I didn’t look at him. “Yeah. He was.”

Of course he was. He always was. Malcolm Hawke was good at everything. He was good and selfless and a talented mage and he was _everything._

Then he went and died on me, on all of us. And suddenly, it all fell to me. I had to look out for everyone. I had to keep Bethany safe. Father wasn’t around to be our safety net anymore. I had to keep an eye on my sister, keep an eye on her magic, while trying to manage my own. For the first time in my life, I was on my own.

It was all on me.

And, I don’t know. Maybe I resented that. Maybe I still do.

I hate myself for admitting it, but it’s true. Back in Lothering, it always felt like Father wanted the world from me and I was never able to live up to that standard. Even when I did everything right, I kept feeling like I could’ve done more. I could’ve been better.

I remember the day I manifested magic. I remember running, wanting desperately to get away from everything so I wouldn’t have to accept reality. I remember when my father finally found me, shivering and crying at the foot of a tree. I remember his words, soft and encouraging, reassuring me that everything was fine, that it was all going to be okay. I remember looking up at his face and seeing how scared he looked, despite his words.

 _Magic will serve that which is best in me,_ he would say, every time he caught me getting upset about it. _Not that which is most base._

Which was his way of reminding me that it’s possible to be a mage and a good person, that those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. They were also words that solidified a legacy I could never live up to.

“He used to do this thing with me and Beth,” I continued, a small smile tugging at my lips. “When he took us out so we could practise magic. He’d always make it a kind of competition, kept trying to play us off each other. Made us see it as more of a game. Drove my mother _absolutely_ batty.”

We’d all tumble inside, breathless and laughing and more often than not, filthy from the dirt and soot from our pretend battles. And every time, Mother would rage about the mess we’d made and the clothes we’d ruined and Father would just smile slyly and kiss her on the cheek before casually asking her how her day was, like he’d had no part in any of it. She’d scowl and he’d laugh and she’d wonder why she loved him so.

Now my father is gone. Bethany is gone. Mother is gone. All I really have left is an uncle who can barely look at me and a few stray letters from a brother who’s already left it all behind.

My breath hitched in my throat and tears began to well up in my eyes before I could even think to stop them. I leaned forward until my head hit the back of the pew in front of me, shaking as I fought back the tears that, once they came, I knew would never stop.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I don’t want to _be here_ anymore.

I want to go home.

Not the estate. Not Kirkwall. _Home._ Lothering. The only _real_ home I’ve ever had. The only place where I had a nice, happy family like everyone else. The only place I felt I belonged.

I want to go home.

I want my parents.

I want everything to go back to the way it was, the way it’s _supposed_ to be. Even if I don’t know what that is anymore.


End file.
